


The Storm That Followed Him

by trvlng_7c



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, I blame Undeadwood and American Vampire for the series of spooky cowboy series to follow, Inspired By Until Dawn (Video Game), Native American/First Nations Culture, Please Don't Kill Me, Suspense, Tags Contain Spoilers, Wendigo, hopefully i did the lore some justice, too many metaphors to keep track of, wendigo dutch van der linde, yes I named that poor bystander deputy after a character in teen wolf, yes i did research the
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:21:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26458642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trvlng_7c/pseuds/trvlng_7c
Summary: Nestled somewhere between the heavens of untamed sky-touching mountains above and the hell of a modernizing world below, structures built on fallen oak or pine were at the mercy of the piercing cold. Bird's had long since fled days before such an unseasonable storm alongside any other prey, from the strongest of bucks to the smallest of rabbit - all except the carrion that'd made their roost in the bell tower of this ram-shack town's makeshift church. The echoed calls of their unkindness carried by the winds was a haunting addition to the rising song through the crevasse this town called home.The mountain itself, so it seemed, had brought down its wrath as nature bent in response to an unnatural offense.This is where the fine men of Pinkerton had made the foolhardy choice to rest before finalizing paperwork on a bounty saw to its completion, the end of a partnership with a price still left to pay.The promise of gold to see it through, this is where he'd been abandoned, coming to realize hours too late the storm would never see the prospecting young deputy leave this town with his assigned 'cargo' intact.This - is where they'd brought the body of Dutch Van Der Linde.
Kudos: 3





	The Storm That Followed Him

There's a winter's blizzard worth of a breeze through a town without a name. Nestled somewhere between the heavens of untamed sky-touching mountains above and the hell of a modernizing world below, structures built on fallen oak or pine were at the mercy of the piercing cold. Doors rattled on their hinges with every whispering howling gust. Signs swayed and at times threatened to tear free from their posts. Birds had long since fled days before such an unseasonable storm alongside any other prey, from the strongest of bucks to the smallest of rabbit - all except the carrion that'd made their roost in the bell tower of this ram-shack town's makeshift church. The echoed calls of their unkindness carried by the winds was a haunting addition to the rising song through the crevasse this town called home.

The winds howled like a starved coyote, nipping at the ankles of horses and mules brought to poor excuses of shelter - or maybe said howls were that of distant wolves crying out their pangs of hunger to an unseen moon. At times throughout the night, surely sensing an unseen evil, even the most domesticated hound dogs gave in to forgotten nature and barked out their replies. Houses breathed within a storm like this. The mountain itself, so it seemed, had brought down its wrath as nature bent in response to an unnatural offense. This is where the fine men of Pinkerton had made the foolhardy choice to rest before finalizing paperwork on a bounty saw to its completion, the end of a partnership with a price still left to pay. This is where they decided to rest before the long journey home with 'evidence' of a job well done in tow, where Agent Ross left a young pup of a field agent - deputized just shy of a week prior, prideful as the shine of the brass star he wore - to the unfortunate task of 'transportation' while the senior officer saw to finalizing John Marston's contract. The promise of gold to see it through, this is where he'd been abandoned, coming to realize hours too late the storm would never see the prospecting deputy leave this town with his assigned 'cargo' intact.

_This - is where they'd brought the body of Dutch Van Der Linde._

The town had gone dead silent nearing on five days into this storm, no sight of sunlight nor glimpse of stars to hope for an ease to the weather. The morning deputy Parrish had arrived in town they'd set up shop in a two-floor cabin left abandoned by homesteaders. The township eagerly received government folk for a time, offered boarding and ample supplies - firewood, matches, blankets, even a cup of hot tea and a meal - for no small fee. The neighbors that had claimed it as a half-way home for the scarce trappers that passed through were gracious hosts, at least in that regard. At the sight of the 'baggage' in tow, the superstitious among the small community suggested the church instead. With that offer declined, the price for boarding doubled as warm company retreated.

Since then the population of that town had halved in size. The once plentiful supplies offered ran scarce, hunters either returned empty-handed or didn't return at all. Some gambled their chances with the blizzard and left well bundled, wagons heavy with what little they'd stored while the going was good. Some wished they'd been among the better half as the aging workhorse or family pet began to look all the more appetizing.

In time, even the church bell had fallen silent.

All the while sat poor deputy Parrish, alone in a house that breathed with every howled gust of snow that beat against the door, his cargo stowed away in the room upstairs to avoid it just as much as he could, leaving only his share of tobacco cigarettes to pacify creeping superstition. These neighbors and their struggles were as distant to him as the stars from the earth. He caught fleeting glimpses, shadows in windows, distant lights that went out one by one.

The former wrangler, in his time on the open prairies, had learned to spare resources. He'd taken to using firewood as little as could be, eating as little as he could stomach without the heart to waste even the smallest crumb. To sleep off hunger would've been a blessing to the Colorado-born son, but the house offered no such peace to close his eyes. By week's end, the wind's rustling came close to sounding more akin to a whispered plea for company, it's howls an ever enticing song, the rattle of tired wooden walls were cloven-hooves shuffling above his head.

He didn't dare look upstairs. Didn't dare give in to wild paranoia. The stench of decay had yet to set in by some grace of cold preservation, but the ravens had taken up residence on his front porch - always cawing, squabbling over scraps like stray dogs as they bristled and shivered in the cold. Another day gone by, he measured, sure as the watch in his pocket could promise, and with every passing day he began to wonder if Agent Ross would return to see the job incompleted, or if he should have taken his chances in the storm.

Three shotgun blasts rang out that night, the sound like frostbitten trees splitting apart as they fell. The sounds of a woman's hoarse screams carried off in the snow. He'd rushed to the window, then out the door, peering through the snow as if he'd see anything but a void of white and blackness as he had too long now. The only indication for concern was another lantern's light gone out.

Hours passed.

Parrish tried again to close his eyes, hearing again the whispered voices just outside, the winds beating against the door, the gnawing hunger in his gut, the heavy footfall on floorboards just above him.

Another log on the fire.

Another day gone, another tea cup's worth of food and melted snow to last the day.

Again he heard footsteps, here, now, in the waking hours of what must be day - he swore, gun in hand, on the heaven and hell he straddled in this place that he'd march upstairs - except these steps had come from outside. On the front porch. He threw open the door, caution to the wind, all prayers to any hope the Pinkerton Agency that carried him so far from home hadn't abandoned him, that Ross hadn't abandoned him, dreams of wealth long gone, he'd settle for rescue in any form-

The young Deputy Parrish came face to face with madness in the red-streaked eyes of a blood-soaked neighbor, cold, pale, shaking, and worst of all: hungry. A knife was raised in the elder's hand as they brought it down upon the boy, weak and feeble desperation drawn from every step they made. The boy, thrown back from the door, reacted without thought to consequence as crimson poured from fresh wounds along the arm he'd thrown upwards to save his face. Flashes of gunpowder rang out from the young deputy's gun, five in total as he staggered to his feet, not a single shot to down the raging bull as it stumbled over firewood and blankets, smashing even the tiniest of porcelain china in a starved-mad rage, more animal than man.

Parrish found his heart within his throat as he ascended the stairs in thoughtless attempts at escaping as a rabbit might flee the clutches of a raven. He cradled his wounds like a babe as he locked himself within a spare room, his brass star stained bloody as it fell from his tattered shirt, blind in the void without so much as a candle's light to cast a shadow. His lungs burned as they pleaded for air, nostrils burning as he steadied against the hardwood door.

Then it struck.

The body was here, it had to be, sure as the pain that filled his bones as his mind pleaded for mercy. But the room was still. No creek of floorboards nor stench of death despite his own nearing ever faster. A crash against the door came suddenly, the same dagger now driven through the door mere inches from his head as shuffled away.

He leveled his pistol as light began streaming in through the cracks.

The blade retracted, driven in again, this time nearly tearing the lock from the door as it rattled, threatening to fall from its hinges.

He pulled the hammer back.

The door was wrenched open with inhuman ferocity, the neighbor mere inches from Parrish, screaming out some feral cry as he raised the blade to charge despite the pistol.

A shadow lunged from the darkness of the room past Parrish in a flash, too fast to comprehend. Territorial. A crown of antlers atop its head, so tall in stature it scraped the ceiling as the floorboards cracked beneath its gate. The scavenger of flesh took flight and found itself skewered in the sharpened branches of bone and cartilage; its carcass tossed over the rails as it fell with a resounding crunch before the house fell silent.

All except the wind rustle outside, the gentle sway of the house as it breathed in the breeze, as the sun began to stream in through the clouds.

A hunger satisfied, the storm above so near the end.

A voice. Low. Calm.

Sweet as honey and quiet as the whispers in the wind, from the gaping maw of a yellowed skull came the voice of the late outlaw, Dutch Van Der Linde.

_**"Could I trouble you for a match to light my cigarette?"** _

**Author's Note:**

> Proper lore and sources to be added in later, but suffice to say a lot of thought and research went into this.  
> More soon,  
> ss


End file.
